


Hanging by a Moment

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the mistakes of the past behind them, Karma and Amy are closer than ever. Determined to spend their final year at Hester drama free, they focus on rebuilding their friendship, not realising that it’s gradually changing into something much more meaningful.</p><p> <i>“You’re Karma and Amy again.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spasticandviolent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasticandviolent/gifts).



> Follows canon up to the end of 2B. Lives in an S3 world, but takes liberties with the timeline. This is probably the closest I’ll get to writing fluff, and I think we all need that to stave off hiatus blues. I also wanted to write something on a smaller scale that involves Karma and Amy’s progress to being more than friends. That said, this is very much played in a minor key, emotionally speaking, which was fun to write toward. Title from/inspired by the Lifehouse song of the same name. Written for my partner in Karmy writing crime, [spasticandviolent](http://spasticandviolent.tumblr.com) I hope you like it!

***

 _“If I know what love is, it is because of you.”  
_ ― Hermann Hesse, _Narcissus and Goldmund._

***

 **Karma** (12:30 PM):  
How’s study hell?

 **Amy** (12:32 PM):  
Warm. Hellish. Unsurprisingly isolating.

 **Karma** (12:33 PM):  
I can fix that. At least on the hellish and isolating front.  
School aircon will forever suck.

 **Amy** (12:36 PM):  
Your powers only extend so far!

 

You were meant to have lunch with Amy today, but she had to cancel. You’re not even mad at her because a) it’s senior year, and she’s taking all these college-level courses for extra credit so she can boost her applications, and b) you’re in a really good place right now. For the first time in forever, you’re back to being friends. Good friends. Really good friends, just like you were before the whole faking it mess and the complete _clusterfuck_ of drama that followed. It’s taken all the way to senior year, but you’re finally back to where you used to be. There’s no Liam drama (you’re friendly, but _so_ over him); no Reagan drama (Facebook friend, linker of cool music and stupid cat videos); no Felix drama (now a close friend, and surprisingly good fun). More importantly, there’s no feelings drama either (the closeness will always be there, you’ve both stopped denying it).

The proof of this progress? The fact that you, Amy, Liam, Shane, Lauren and Felix can all sit at a table without killing each other. You can talk and joke and it’s actually _fun_ to hang out as a group. You even went with Amy to Homecoming, and had the best time, getting drunk on spiked punch and dancing like idiots to _terrible_ music before having your first sleepover in forever.

So, this is where you are. Happy, settled, and no longer homeless Karma (money’s still tight, and your new house is tiny, but it doesn’t matter). Netflix binges and movie nights are back. Girls Weekends are back, with the addition of Lauren whenever she feels like it. You’re back as welcome guests at each other’s dinner tables. You work the same shifts at The Brew & Chew, and you make a pretty good team when you manage to keep from goofing off.

After a lot of late night talks, and much more honesty, you’ve gotten rid of all the baggage that threatened to trash a decade of friendship.

There’s no more weird jealousy, no more possessive, territorial bullshit. The last two girls Amy’s dated, you totally scoped them out for her and helped her get ready for them. It’s fun and easy and comfortable and she’s not embarrassed by her feelings. You can hug and hold hands and compliment each other and it’s not cause for huge introspective turmoil. It just is, and you just are. You’re Karma and Amy again. But, it’s not like before, you’ve learned how to exist separately. You have drama club and your music, while Amy has the school magazine and her filmmaking. If anything, the time apart doing other things and seeing other people makes your friendship stronger. Somewhere along the line, you learned boundaries, you learned how to be Amy’s friend, to be as close as you were, but have room to breathe too.

You were good friends before, but now you’re a good friend too, and that’s not always been true. During Amy’s summer away, that was your mom’s advice: be a good friend, whatever happens, happens. That ease and serenity took a long time to come, and you’ve had to fight for it, but you’re so glad you did. It was hard at first, to be around her and talk to her. It was hard to try and get through the distance that had opened up between you, and deal with the coldness and the bitterness for what you’d both lost. It was hard to live with what Amy had turned her back on and to realise your part in that decision.

But, that’s over now. You’ve hugged and cried and hugged some more and made your peace.

You’re not sure when it happened, but you started doing little things for each other without any kind of arrangement. Things like buying each other lunch, guitar strings, and new Polaroid film. Just because. Little doses of kindness. Shane suggested a long time ago that you might be buying her affection, but it’s more complex than that. You just know what makes each other happy, and in the grind of school and work, those little things are just what you need. Even Shane can see that now.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed by your mom either, and she’s actually proud that you’re being so thoughtful and altruistic. You’re glad, and it’s more common than it used to be, thanks to the fact that you’ve somehow ended up near the top percentile of the class.

Until this year, you hadn’t been much of a library person, and you were forever being kicked out by crotchety old Mrs Rubens for talking too loudly, or having to use up most of Amy’s borrowing limit because you had too many late fines. You’re by no means a model student - the confident, new-improved you takes ridiculous joy in winking at and flirting with Toby, the shy, nerdy guy who shelves the books - but you’re a better one and that’s good enough.

You swipe in now, carrying contraband coffee for Amy, with a sandwich safely hidden away inside your bag. She probably hasn’t eaten anything, and she’s so wired right now, you’re not entirely sure that giving her more stimulants is the best course of action. But, it’s her favourite thing to drink and the guys at The Brew & Chew are some of the few people you can trust to make it right for you both, with soy milk for you and absolutely _no_ syrups for her.

Like you knew he would, the shelving guy blushes when you wink at him and squeeze through the gap between his trolley and the first stacks. Typically, Mrs Rubens murmurs something and glares disparagingly when you turn back to look across at her desk. Amy is a creature of habit too, she’ll be at one of the desks toward the back near the windows. She says anywhere else feels like prison. You weave through the aisles easily, giving a little wave to Lisbeth and Leila when you pass their table (they still beam at you like your teen royalty, and it’s a nice confidence boost), and Wade when you spot him sitting at one of the computer terminals off to their left (who still smiles at you and calls you Sandra Dee whenever you happen to speak).

The closer you get to Amy, the slower you go, wanting to keep as quiet as possible, just to add to the surprise. Her desk looks a complete mess, work and textbooks spread out everywhere, and her chair is teetering dangerously on two legs as opposed to four. Without you there to keep her neat and tidy, she’s a total disaster. You can’t help but find it endearing. She’s doing math - equations of some kind - for Mr Kenworthy, who’s overseeing this horrible, fun-sucking regime that’s robbing you of your best friend. Said equations look like a whole new language you can’t even fathom the meaning of. Like most subjects other than literature, history, and art, she hates it, but she’s good at it. If you didn’t love her so much, you’d be insanely jealous of how smart she is, but all you can be is proud, because of how far she pushes herself, and just a little worried because she’s burning the candle at both ends right now, forgetting to take care of herself.

That’s where you come in. You’re Amy’s one-woman cheer squad-turned-surrogate mother. It’s no hardship, she’s dragging you singlehandedly through your own math classes right now, and she explains it fifty thousand times better than that evil witch Mrs Langley. You’ve always liked taking care of Amy. She’s kind of _useless_ at everything practical or anything that requires dexterity and can’t really be learned; like cooking, hairstyling, makeup and fashion. Though, in fairness, she has a really cool sense of style, she just doesn’t know when to stop where patterns are concerned. Right now, she has so many assignments, if it wasn’t for you, she’d starve, wear the same outfit for a week straight, and never get up on time. You’ve been her alarm clock since middle school, but it’s even more important that she get here at least an hour before classes start since she took on these extra courses.

You stand behind her and cover her eyes with your hand, keeping the coffee cup safe in the other one.

“Guess who?” you say, in a loud whisper. A guy in a snapback sitting at the desk next to Amy’s shushes you and you glare.

“Jennifer Lawrence?” she deadpans.

You smirk. She’s an ass. “Cute, but no.”

“I know it’s you, idiot. I’d know those perfectly manicured nails and that perfume anywhere.”

Your smirk blooms into a smile. “I _do_ have a really nice nail colour on today. OPI for the win.”

“Hey, you do,” she says, turning your hand so she can see. “Pretty.”

The colour is Amy’s favourite. Super Star Status. Bought on a binge with your first real ‘fun’ pay packet.

“I have gifts. Caffeine and carbs gifts!” you declare grandly, placing the coffee cup down before sliding into the empty seat on her opposite side.

“Oh you know me so well!” she’s talking far too loudly, beaming at you. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” she singsongs, reaching for the coffee and taking a long sip. “Thank you!”

Now everyone nearby is shushing you, but you don’t care, because she’s smiling for the first time in days. You’ve come across her in exactly the same spot, brow furrowed, tense and dejected far too many times for your liking this week. She’s under so much pressure and juggling so much, you have to force her to take time out.

“I got your favourite. Ricky made it up for you,” you say, making a concerted effort to whisper as you reach inside your bag for the sandwich, lifting it carefully out.

“Ham and cheese toasted club with mustard mayonnaise?” she asks, eyes agleam.

“Yes, with some extra salad because you need it right now.”

She makes a face like she’s five. In fact, it’s the same face she made when she was five when faced with cafeteria vegetables. The only time she eats anything like that is when your mom makes dinner. You swear her aubergine parmesan could bring about world peace.

“Thanks mom!” she shoves you playfully, still sipping on her coffee. “Seriously though, thank you, you’re the best. I’m _fucking_ starving,” she continues, putting the coffee down and grabbing the sandwich from you, ripping open the wrapper. As soon as she takes a bite, she groans with the joy.

You snort. “When are you not?”

“Unnecessary,” she says, shaking her head. “Rude and unnecessary.”

She’s glaring at you, but the fact that she’s sort of smiling and talking with her mouth full makes her whole admonishment seem rather unthreatening.

“God, I can’t take you anywhere,” you laugh, thankful that Ricky gave you extra napkins. You dab at the corner of her mouth where it’s smeared with mayonnaise. “If the ladies of Syzzr could see you now!”

She narrows her eyes at you and flips you off, having the good grace to keep her mouth closed while she chews this time. You pull your chair closer to hers, so you can talk better without getting silenced by the noise police.

“You know, if Ricky wasn’t really gay I’d totally marry him on the strength of this sandwich. That, and the fact he has constant access to donuts.”

“Amy, I’d _still_ marry Ricky on the strength of this.”

She barely stifles a laugh, hand covering her mouth. “You have no morals, Karma Ashcroft. No morals.”

You put a hand to your chest and mouth ‘bitch’ faux outraged. The fact you don’t have to remind her you’re kidding is cause for celebration. She smiles, bright and brilliant, elbowing you in the side.

“So, when do I get my brainiac best friend back? This pod nerd Amy blows.”

“I’m not a nerd!” she hisses.

“So says the girl who’s in academic decathlon!” you tease.

“Two words Karm,” she pauses for effect. “Prize. Money.”

Her eyes go as wide as saucers, you think yours do too.

“That’s our California money right?” you ask, not needing to be reminded at all.

You’ve got one summer before college starts in the fall, and you’re spending it together. Everything you make after your share at home is for the trip.

“Totally, my cut anyway. Me and Raj Danesh got this taped, hon. You watch!” she assures. “Baldwin High are going down. Again.”

Amy is a nerd. A very cute nerd. Your very cute nerd.

Despite your complete supposed lack of morals, she shares what’s left of her sandwich and her coffee with you anyway. Truthfully, you’re starving too since you talked with Shane far too much instead of eating your tofu salad. You stay together like that, comfortable, talking a little while Amy finishes up her questions. Her enthusiasm to share things with you - even weird, crazy hard math - is kind of wonderful. Most of it goes over your head, but she’s patient and kind, and you find yourself leaning closer to her as you listen.

You both start when the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch period. Amy shoves everything into her bag in such a way that you know she’ll never find any of it. She’s off, sprinting for the exit, because it’s her favourite class, literature, with Miss Mallory. Predictably, she’s thrown away her trash, but left her equations behind. You pick them up to save her from getting reamed out by Kenworthy. Honestly, she’d forget her own head. He has no time for lateness in any form. She’s worked too hard to get reamed out for bullshit like that.

When she turns back, you wave the notes at her. The relief on her face is palpable. You put her notes carefully in your bag, together with a paper for Miss Mallory, and pick up your pace, racing to meet her at the exit, where she’s stuck in the bottleneck of students. Wordlessly, she reaches for your hand. It fits easily in yours, and you glance down at it smiling. You look back at her, and it’s like you’re both in on a secret of some kind. A good secret. The best secret. She leads you through the crowd, squeezing through a tiny gap in the throng, and you set off running together for Miss Mallory’s classroom. The faster you go, the louder you laugh. Amy’s excitement is infectious. By the time you make it there, you’re both giddy and breathless, but pivotally, first. You both try and fail to fit through the door at the same time. Miss Mallory rolls her eyes at your ridiculousness and waves you inside, not bothering to reinforce the seating allocation that meant you were supposed to sit alphabetically. Once you sat next to Amy for three weeks in a row, she gave up.

You’ve been through a lot in the last couple of years, but on afternoons like this, with Amy sitting at your side, you think it might've been worth it.


	2. A Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Amy’s always been there for you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5377802/chapters/12421022). Thanks so much for all the feedback on this. I hope it’s as fun to read as it was to write.

**Karma** (7:06 PM):  
I don’t think this guy is gonna show up :(

 **Amy** (7:07 PM):  
Really? There’s still time, right?  
What a dick. I told Shane this was a stupid idea.

 **Karma** (7:08 PM):  
No, a stupid idea is believing some random cute guy  
on a dating app will show up for a date.

 **Amy** (7:09 PM):  
Hey, don’t say that! It’s his loss, Karm.

 **Amy** (7:09 PM):  
Stay where you are.

 **Karma** (7:10 PM):  
Why?

 **Amy** (7:10 PM):  
Because, dork, I’m coming.  
We’re gonna use this for our movie night!

 **Karma** (7:12 PM):  
You had plans.

 **Amy** (7:14 PM):  
Now I have better ones with you. :)

 

You wish you could say this was the worst night of your life, but it’s not. You’re meant to be on a date with a really cute guy from Tinder called TJ, and he’s late. Not just a little bit late, officially, probably-going-to-stand-you-up late. It’s the first date you’ve attempted to go on in _months_ and you wasted money on a new dress for nothing. But, it’s still not the worst night, because Amy’s coming to cheer you up and to save you from standing in this movie theatre foyer looking like an idiot wishing the floor would swallow you whole. She’s changed her entire evening for you, and because of her, you won’t end up hiding in the bathroom or ruining the makeup you spent too much time applying, because you know she’ll make you laugh and make stupid jokes to distract you. Then, she’ll buy enough food to put you into a coma and then none of it will matter. Worst case scenario, when you’re still sad even after all the jokes and the food, she’ll hold you while you cry, even though she’ll likely think those tears are wasted.

Amy’s always been there for you. She always knows exactly how to make you feel better.

Next time, you’re not letting Shane make the shortlist of possible dates, and you’re vetoing anyone who’s wearing a snapback in their profile picture. No, wait, there’s not even going to _be_ a next time. No more schemes. No more dating apps. You’re done. You haven’t sworn off dating exactly, you just haven’t felt the need to chase boys. A first. Shane and Amy wore you down and made you a profile in the first place and coaxed you into looking through the matches. If they weren’t so well-meaning you’d be as pissed at them as you are at yourself for getting caught up in the excitement of it all. You believed them when they (OK, Shane) said enough time had passed since the Wade disaster and the Liam disaster for you to try again. You believed them when they dragged you around the mall and had you try on outfits and test perfume and makeup samples.

Now, you just feel beyond _fucking_ stupid, and you have a TJ disaster to add to your ever-growing list of romantic tragedies – if that’s even his real name, of course. For all you know, he could be some greasy, fat, balding guy from bumfuck nowhereville who lives with his mother, and if you’d met you would’ve ended up dead or lived the rest of your life in his basement as a pet because you’ve walked into your very own episode of _To Catch a Predator_. Though, deep down, you know that’s just your imagination running wild and Amy’s assessment of things is much closer to the truth. TJ is probably just a smug douchebag who doesn’t really care if he hurts your feelings.

You seem to attract them.

The old Karma would’ve written some passive-aggressive tweets about this whole sorry mess, but somehow, you hold back, because really, you don’t need everyone at school to see another grand display of how pathetic you are. You’ve spent the better part of this week with a ridiculous grin on your face, buoyed by Shane’s talk of how dating college boys will be better, because they’re older and smarter and infinitely more fun. Somehow, you don’t think this is the kind of fun he meant.

It feels like forever since Amy sent her last text, and you know it’s not that far for her to travel, not now that she can drive. The longer you have to wait, the worse this whole experience becomes. If she wasn’t sweeping in to save you, you’d walk home, heels be damned. You’ve experienced enough shame for one evening. People are looking at you strangely and every person who comes through the door is either part of a couple or _not_ Amy (and definitely not TJ).

You’re debating sending her a text when you feel a tap on your shoulder. Immediately, you spin around, wondering if it’s finally TJ, ready to knock that stupid _fucking_ snapback off his stupid – but still _so_ cute – head. It’s not TJ, it’s Amy.

She smiles at you, and gives a dorky little wave even though she’s right next to you. “Hey you!”

You’re so relieved you feel like crying, or throwing your arms around her and squeezing the hell out of her for being such an amazing friend. You owe her for this one. Big. This deserves way more than some doughnuts or a pancake breakfast.

“You’re here!” you reply, far too loudly. “Thank God!” you continue, squeezing her tightly anyway.

You’re being far too dramatic. It’s not like you didn’t see her two hours ago for some last ditch encouragement before Shane dragged you off to get ready, overseeing every moment of primping, before he dropped you off here himself. You plucked for TJ, you even _waxed_ for the guy at Shane’s insistence. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

“I am. Disaster averted! Lauren let me borrow her car, emergency and all.”

Your brows shoot up and you squeak out a “She did?” in response.

Good sisterly bond or no sisterly bond, Lauren never lets anyone else drive that car. It’s her crazy expensive ‘sorry your parents are getting divorced’ emotional BandAid, and she treats it like a child. God knows what Amy gave up in exchange.

She’s still smiling, and she steps back to take you in, like she’s never seen you before. “Yeah, Shane totally played this look down,” she nods approvingly. “This,” she waves up and down, indicating your outfit, “was _totally_ wasted on Tinder douche. You look hot.”

You smile, but you know you’re blushing and you look away.

The dress looks good on you, clinging in all the right places without being _too_ slutty, you have standards. And your legs always look good. Shane _killed_ the hair and makeup too. Even so, it’s still a novelty to hear her say things like that, but you’re glad you’ve reached the point in your friendship where she can say that and it doesn’t kill her. She’s happy, she’s confident, and she’s comfortable. She watches girls at the mall, or at school, and you point ones out she might like and it’s some not weird big deal.

“So do you,” you reply, without thinking.

It’s only now you notice what she’s wearing. It’s her trademark ‘pussy magnet’ outfit (Shane’s words not yours, though you distinctly remember swatting him for being so gross): skinny jeans, boots, leather jacket, eyeliner, loose curls. She smells amazing. Then, belatedly, you remember what Amy’s plans were before you completely derailed them. She was going on a date too, or at least, hoping to get laid (again, Shane’s words, not yours).

You’re officially the worst best friend ever.

“Oh fuck!” you exclaim, only just managing not to slap yourself in the head. “You were going out with Shane to that club because they don’t card! Shit! I’m sorry,” you continue, apologetic.

“It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t about to leave you here by yourself. Truth is, it probably would’ve sucked. Shane always finds these random dudes and bails on me within two minutes,” she shrugs. “I’d rather hang out with you, anyway. At least you can see this outfit, kinda gets lost in all that dim lighting and neons.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” you reply, smiling as you reach for her hand. She nods, twining her index finger with yours for second and holding it before taking your hand fully. You’ve done it ever since you were little girls, but not for a long time now. “You’re the best. Thank you.”

“I know,” she says, with a soft smile, giving your hand a squeeze. “What can I say, sucker for a damsel in distress?”

You just look at her with a wry, but knowing smile. She’s rescued you a lot over the years. It’s entirely possible she has a steed tied up in the parking lot and not a car.

She’s always ready to charge in and take care of you, no matter the cost to her. When you get hurt, she kicks ass on your behalf. When she gets hurt, you pick up the pieces and hold her while she cries. Well, except when you’re the one doing the hurting, but, thankfully, that hasn’t happened in a really long time.

“What are we gonna watch? We missed Brooklyn already,” you note, looking at the times above the ticket booth.

TJ never would’ve watched it, and you probably would’ve ended up in some shitty action flick, making out with him in the back row anyway, because now that she and Shane have stirred up all the boy talk, you’re embarrassingly desperate to be kissed, desperate for physical affection. You got so used to it with Amy and Liam (and Amy _and_ Liam at various points) going without anything aside from quick fumbles in the dark with your left hand is pretty terrible. But, Amy doesn’t need to know that, because it’s beyond pathetic.

“I’m such a sucker, that I made a plan B for us already,” she says, wheeling around in front of you.

You don’t let go of her hand.

“What?”

“Since Tinder dude turned out to be a grade A piece of shit, I booked us tickets for Mockingjay before I left because I know how much you wanted to see it,” she reaches into her pocket and produces the ticket with a flourish. “I picked them up while you were pacing and having a staring contest with your phone.”

“Really?” you ask, grinning idiotically. “But you hate The Hunger Games. You said it was feminist lite and full of dangerous conflicting messages about revolution,” you remind her.

You can remember her whole colourful rant in the cafeteria, punctuated by stabbing fries into her ketchup. She was fresh from her film elective, all passionate and fired up. Shane and Lauren waved her off with groaning and ‘oh my god’s’ but really, you love it when she goes off like that, it’s kind of adorable, even if it is really nerdy.

“Yeah, but you don’t,” she counters, and you let out this weird little sigh and you’re not entirely sure you didn’t just swoon because she’s so awesome and she puts up with so much drama and bullshit. “And, you know, Jennifer Lawrence isn’t _that_ ugly, I can endure it.”

“And there you go again with your not-so-closet JLaw fetish!” you joke.

“It’s not a fetish,” she corrects. “It’s a consistent appreciation of her beauty.”

“Right,” you nod along. “Of course it is. Are you sure this wasn’t really your plan A all along?”

If you hadn’t squeezed her to death already, you’d do it now. Her timing is perfect. You have ten minutes before the previews so there’s plenty of time to go to the concessions and buy your body weight in processed sugar. You deserve it, you’ve suffered a huge emotional trauma and Amy will never say no to any kind of sweet food (or any food period). You don’t know how she has room for it all.

“Busted. Of course it’s plan A,” she pauses for effect, smirking. “You know, A for Amy.”

She even makes air quotes around her name.

If it were anyone else, you’d find it annoying and obnoxious, but it’s Amy, so it’s not. Everyone at school thinks she’s all artsy and too cool for it, but to you, she’s just a big dork with a sugar addiction and a heart of gold.

“Oh God,” you groan, yanking your hand away and swatting at her. “You’re so lame!”

“I’m _your_ lame, you’re stuck with me for life now. No take backs!” she crows, headed for the concessions. “Go find our seats while I get us diabetes in a box!”

You wave her away, laughing, and you realise how much you needed this release after the giant stress-a-thon that was your day until Amy decided to swoop in and make everything fifteen million times better. She always has. You think she always will. There should be another word for thank you, something better and more meaningful because _God_ are you glad you fought to keep hold of this friendship and keep her in your life. It wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be your life at all.

The usher looks at you like you’re weird because you’re still grinning when you show her your tickets, like they’re made of gold or something. The theatre is busy, almost full, and you have to do a few “excuse me’s” to get to your seat, fumbling along because it’s dark and the usher girl decided not to shine her little light down the row. Two boys a few seats along totally give you _the look_ when you pass, and you know they’re staring at your ass, but you don’t care because Amy’s right, you _do_ look hot and it is TJ’s fucking loss – and you’ll take the confidence boost too. They stare at Amy when she comes down the row with a huge cup of soda and a bag of popcorn in her arms, not making one squeak of complaint, even when she spills a little of the soda on the taller boy’s sneakers. She apologises in a flurry of “sorry’s,” but he just shrugs it off.

“I didn’t know what to get, so I got everything,” Amy announces, passing the soda and the popcorn to you before dropping into her seat with the least elegance ever, and you shake your head at her. This is not the girl you’ve heard Shane describe dancing around in clubs, all swaying hips and sexy effortlessness (again, his words, not yours), but then they don’t serve JD and Coke here, and once she’s had that, Amy is _very_ different.

“Oh, oh, And these,” she continues, presenting you with a bag of Skittles and M&M’s, flinging them out of her jacket pockets like a magic trick. “You deserve a sugar hit.”

“Sharsies?” you ask, with a little pout, holding out your hand.

“Like that’s even a question, Karma. Honestly,” she glares, faux outraged. “Who chooses between candy?”

She’s still shaking her head, playing along, muttering something as she shrugs off her jacket and you settle into your movie routine, opening bags and trading handfuls of things with a joyful kind of greed you only have when you’re with her. You lean over and she drops some of the M&M and Skittle mix-up in your mouth. She’s barely started. Given how much candy you’ve seen her eat, you’re amazed she doesn’t rattle like a Pez when she moves.

“See, who needs Tinder?” she comments, smiling at you. “Less dudebros more sucrose!”

You burst out laughing, cupping a hand briefly over your mouth to stop what’s left of the candy from flying out. “You did not!” you exclaim, barely able to speak.

“I did!” she nudges you, slurping loudly on the soda. “I worked on that joke while I was in line,” she continues, lowering her voice when the previews start. “I needed something to do.”

“Time well spent,” you manage, between chews, pointing toward the soda.

She slurps on it even louder before passing it to you, and the girl in front of you flashes you both a death glare, while Amy shrugs a “what?” with the kind of face that usually means you’ll have to talk her down from saying something stupid. You smile apologetically, because thanks to Amy, you still have a very full mouth. Thankfully, she just huffs and turns back to the screen. So much for looking cool and sexy.

It’s all gone out the window, and you couldn’t really care.

You’re relaxing now, forgetting about how sucky your day’s been. Forgetting TJ and that random hipster bitch in front spoiling things. Forgetting how you’ll probably not be able to get away with taking the dress back because it’ll smell like popcorn and soda. You slump down lower in your seat and kick off your shoes, proud of yourself that you haven’t had a meltdown yet, and marvelling over the fact you can still do a really good pedicure even under such traumatic circumstances.

“Miss Too-Cool-For-This-Franchise needs to chill,” Amy hisses, still glaring at the back of the girl’s head.

“Hey,” you say softly, touching her forearm. “Forget her. Let’s just enjoy this?”

Amy looks straight down at your hand, then back up at you. Her expression is unreadable. “Sure,” she breathes, with a small nod, settling into her seat again.

You’re here with your best friend and you’re gonna watch Jennifer Lawrence look hot and kick ass and Liam Hemsworth look hot and broody while you make a food baby out of candy, and you don’t care if people from school are here and think it’s a date and Vashti puts out an APB on every social media platform in existence. Everything about the way Amy’s been all week up to this has made you wonder why you never went as far as going on a date when you were faking. Amy’s amazing at it. She’s chivalrous to a fault because you haven’t paid for a single thing, and she won’t hear of it if you bring it up. She’s sweet and protective enough to want to drive you home later, and make sure you get inside before she leaves. She’d probably open the car door for you and kiss you on the cheek too if you had played out the date. She’d probably even let you keep her jacket for a while, even though it’s her favourite.

If this is how not-dates go, you’ll take it over a date anytime. Every day you had with Liam was universally terrible. He tried too hard. You tried too hard. It was all too hard.

“I just wanted to make you smile.”

She’s trying for that cool thing again, but it doesn’t matter about anyone else in this theatre. It doesn’t matter because she’s talking in that sweet, soft way you haven’t heard in a long time, and looking at you in the most earnest, open, loving way, because the dark can hide it just enough for it to be OK. Except, she’s still looking at you when the theatre gets brighter, and the studio logos come up, and the theatre gets quiet.

“You did. You really did.”

It takes her a few seconds to realise you’re still staring. All you can think is that in this light she looks kind of beautiful, and you’ve never been gladder that someone’s stood you up before.

But, there’s a first time for everything.


	3. A Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You love her without conditions."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5377802/chapters/12421022). Thanks so much for all the love on this story. I'm really glad you all love it so much. I don't want to spoil too much of what happens, but I think it's the tipping point for Karmy in this storyworld. That said, do remember this isn't a Karmy who confess their feelings in grand, overt ways. Part of the challenge for me writing this was not doing that. Call this chapter my holiday gift to you all. Enjoy!

**Karma** (7:26 PM):  
Are you OK?

 **Amy** (7:27 PM):  
Not really. Some birthday.

 **Amy** (7:27 PM):  
Did my mom even notice? Don’t lie to me.

 **Karma** (7:27 PM):  
No.

 **Karma** (7:28 PM):  
Aims, please come back inside. It’s only another hour or so?  
People want to see you. Don’t let her spoil things.

 **Amy** (7:29 PM):  
No. Fuck her! She did that already.  
Fuck her stupid cake. Fuck her stupid party. Fuck it all. I don’t care.

 **Karma** (7:29 PM):  
I care, Amy. I hate seeing you like this.

 **Amy** (7:30 PM):  
You’re the only one who does. You always are.

 **Amy** (7:30 PM):  
How does my mom manage to make my birthday about her?

 **Karma** (7:30 PM):  
It’s a rare talent. If you won’t come back to me, I’ll come to you.  
You’re not staying out there alone.

 

When you imagined how Amy’s eighteenth birthday might play out, you didn’t envisage that you’d be holding it at the Westwood Country Club, surrounded by three hundred people attempting to dance to jazz, and texting her because she’s bailed on her own party. You can’t say you blame her. This is the _least_ Amy place in all of Austin. Over the summer you worked here with Reagan waiting tables. It was an education. The money was great, but the membership? Not so much. The place was full of bitchy women and letchy old businessmen with their mistresses. Your dad always says money doesn’t buy class, and you have to say you agree.

Until a few weeks ago, you and Lauren had the most amazing plan set up and ready to go, including one of the best Amy-friendly cakes you’ve _ever_ come across. Then Farrah breezed in from a network meeting, announced she was now co-anchor on the WTXS Evening News, and suddenly decided that all those plans weren’t good enough now that she was ‘a high-profile public figure’ – which is total crap. Five people watch that channel, your grandpa included.

You’re still mad. So is Lauren. Amy’s barely spoken to her mom since she got the job. Things are frosty. Hell will freeze over and thaw again before anyone apologises.

If Farrah wasn’t currently holding court like she’s the First Lady, surrounded by a mob of women from her book club – all they do is drink and gossip and bitch, not a page is turned – and her work colleagues from the station, you’d have stormed up and given her a piece of your mind. You still might do that, if you can swing a drink from that waiter to give you some courage. She’s ruined everything. You tried and tried to get her to reason. Everyone did, even Amy’s dad couldn’t get her to come around. In the end, you think she just dug her heels in out of spite. You have your speech ready. You could tear her a new one without much effort, because honestly, you have enough ammunition. The words on the tip of your tongue are a decade in the making. Amy’s everything her mother isn’t: thoughtful, kind, passionate, open-minded, and selfless. You’ve seen firsthand how much it hurts Amy when she gets overlooked, judged, and questioned. For all the progress Farrah’s made with her, she’s still hanging on to this outdated Southern Tennessee Williams _bullshit_ about debutantes, and gentleman callers, and _fucking_ pageants and it’s ridiculous. Amy’s never going to be that primped, perfect Barbie doll of a girl, and you’d never ever want her to be. Amy’s Amy. Amy’s perfect exactly the way she is, and you’d kill her if she tried to change herself again just to try and please her mother.

You’d hate to see the girl you love so much disappear.

But, before you give Farrah the biggest reality check of all time, you’ve got more important things to do, like going to see if Amy’s OK, and trying to sneak her some cake to cheer her up. OK so, this whole thing is overblown and ostentatious, and her birthday cake has enough tiers to make this feel like a wedding, but it’s chocolate ganache. It’s still being sliced after Amy cut the first symbolic one right after a loud rendition of happy birthday, and there’s no way she’s missing out on that. She’s already denied herself too much. There’s a stack of gifts she’s not allowed to open yet, and she barely ate any of the three course dinner you had earlier, so you know she must be starving now. In fact, she’s barely engaged with any of this apart from a brief circuit of the dining room to thank people for coming hours ago. Not even her nana’s inappropriate jokes or Shane and Felix’s scathing commentary on the evening could make her smile. You couldn’t even get her to smile. It’s a miracle she made it to the dinner and the cake cutting, she wanted to leave as soon as you all got here.

Now, you’re annoyed at yourself for making her stay and dragging her through the last hour and a half. She’s just gotten progressively more and more miserable, and less able to hide how upset she really is. Amy’s good at hiding things – really good, you should know – but you can see straight through it.

You move quickly toward the cake table, weaving through the mass of people with polite, “excuse me sir’s,” and “excuse me ma’am’s,” because this party is full of people over twice your age, and you’ve only seen about ten people from school, excluding Lauren, Shane, Felix and Liam. Two lines snake from the table, and you go to the one closest to the cake, but there’s a lot less than when Amy bailed ten minutes ago. The waiters are still diligently slicing, offering forks and napkins with little thanks. When you get to the front of the line, you smile at the waiter, Rodrigo, polite and discreet, because you know he has to be professional, but you know most people here are pretending he doesn't exist. He smiles back and offers you a much larger slice than everyone before you with a conspiratorial wink. He was super nice to you when you first started, not yelling when you smashed plates by accident, and not seeming to mind at all when you followed him around like a lost puppy on the couple of days Reagan was off sick. When you turn away, you feel a tug on your arm. Surprised, you turn back and he wordlessly passes you a bottle of champagne, Moet, finger pressed to his lips for you not to speak. The party is too busy and too loud for anyone else to notice. He’s tilts his head, motioning to the left, where the doors to The Garden Room are now open, giving you a direct path to the outside unseen. You slip through, turning back to mouth a “thank you,” in his direction.

It takes longer than you thought it would to find Amy, with a lot more apologies and squeezing past people you don’t even know before you make it there. Your phone buzzes in your clutch, but you ignore it, leaving it wedged under your arm, hoping it’s not her. When you spot her, sitting on some steps off one of the main paths, you can’t help but feel desperately sad. She looks like Cinderella. A puffy-eyed, pissed off, Cinderella who tossed her heels to the side long ago, but Cinderella nonetheless. She looks pretty, even in this light, with her hair up like at Farrah and Bruce’s wedding. The dress and heels aren't something she’s naturally comfortable in, and you had to persuade her to do it. All you can think now is you’ve added to her discomfort, and it makes you feel strangely guilty.

The closer you get, the less pretty the picture is.

She looks so small and lonely, so _unlike_ you wanted her to be. You wanted happy, giddy Amy, who was hopped up on sugar, bouncing off the walls while she danced to stupid pop songs she’d never admit to liking, much less knowing all the lyrics to. You’ll take that over the angry, tear-stained, sad Amy in front of you now. If only you could rewind this day and let her have it over, so she could do whatever she wanted. She hasn’t noticed you yet, preoccupied with the only present she’s actually opened today - yours. It’s a bracelet from her favourite company, Bones + Feathers. She loves their stuff, and no one else would think to get it, so you saved up a little from your paychecks from The Brew n’ Chew and bought it as a surprise. You don’t think you’ll ever forget how her face lit up when she opened the box for the first time, or how tightly she hugged you in thanks. It was worth all that hard work just to see her happy, you just didn’t think it’d be so brief.

“Found you,” you announce, softly.

“Hey,” she replies, smiling weakly. “I know I’m lame for crying,” she continues, swatting angrily at her face.

“No, you’re not!” you counter, carefully, crossing the small patch of grass to meet her.

Your heels are coming off too. They’ve been killing you ever since you got here. You wish you’d listened to Lauren when she offered to let you borrow some of hers.

“I thought the birthday girl deserved some cake,” you say, holding out the plate toward her. She takes it from you with a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And, some champagne,” you add, grinning a little when you hold the bottle aloft.

“How?” she asks, seeming brighter all of a sudden.

This time her smile is genuine.

“I know a guy,” you offer cryptically, sitting next to her. You toss your heels to the side next to hers, and set the champagne bottle down in the little space that’s between you.

“Rodrigo. I worked with him over the summer, cool guy,” you explain, as you concern yourself with trying to open the bottle, picking at the gold paper, watching it flutter away, caught by the breeze. “I think he felt sorry for you,” you add, quietly.

She sighs heavily. “Yeah. Not exactly what I imagined when we used to plan out our birthdays at sleepovers.”

“Me either,” you shrug, risking a glance over. She’s looking down at the cake, inspecting it, before taking the smallest of bites. “How is it?” you ask, looking down at it.

She looks up, and you can see her eyes are glistening with tears. “Actually,” she sniffs, “it’s pretty fucking amazing.”

“Well, she got one thing right at least.”

She lets out a little laugh. “Just one,” she sucks in a breath, still teetering on the brink of tears. “You want to share?” she asks, seeming almost nervous, placing the plate between you both.

“Always,” you reply, easily and simply, reaching forward for the fork and taking a bite.  Amy’s right, it tastes amazing. Rich and indulgent, full of that deep, dark chocolate flavour you both really love. “Wow.”

“Right?” she says, shaking her head in disbelief and closing the distance between you.

She looks a little happier, colour returning to her cheeks. Your mom says that’s a sign of good health, or maybe it’s good chi, you can’t really remember. But, you’re certain if your mom were here now, instead of looking awkward in that dining room, she’d see Amy’s chakra’s are dark as _hell_.

“We totally need to open this,” you announce, passing the fork back to Amy, indicating the bottle of champagne.

“We do. It’s really fucking sour, and I don’t even like it all that much, but she’s paying, so we might as well.”

“Exactly.”

“Fuck her!” she declares, smiling, taking a bigger bite of her cake.

“Fuck her!” you echo, louder, working the cork out of the champagne, just like you saw Rodrigo and the other wait staff do over the summer.

When it pops gloriously, firing off into the distance, you both cheer. The champagne fizzes upwards, starting to cascade over the top of the bottle. “Quick, catch it!” you say, passing it over to Amy for the first drink. She puts the bottle to her lips, drinking quickly to try to stop it from overspilling, but she fails completely, resorting to licking the excess off the side of the bottle.

“So _very_ classy, Amy!” you laugh, and she does too. It’s bright, and full, and genuine. Like some cloud has lifted. _This_ is what you wanted her to experience; what you wanted to experience.

“Like all good Westwood ladies!” she comments, with a wry smile before taking another sip.

“You’re definitely _not_ a lady, but you _are_ amazing, and don’t you forget it, OK?”

“Is this where you tell me not to let them ‘dull my shine,’ and I have to ‘be my authentic self’?” she says, imitating her mother perfectly.

The irony of both statements isn’t lost on either of you. Farrah thinks she knows Amy, but she doesn’t. She knows a version of Amy she conjured up in her head. She loves that version of her too. You love the real girl. You love her when she’s sad, when she sulks and whines, when she makes mistakes. You love her without conditions. That’s why seeing her upset or going through times away from her is so hard.

“No, smart ass,” you swat at her, taking the bottle back to drink some. It’s better than you expected, but she’s right, it’s sour as _fuck._ “I’d tell you to be Amy. Be the best -”

“Version of myself, yes,” she jumps in, cutting you off and finishing your sentence for you. That’s your mom’s mantra, and she’s said it to you both so often now that, it’s ingrained. You haven’t always followed it, but it’s a rare instance of her being right.

“All I wanted to do was go bowling and have pizza with you guys, and I couldn’t even get that!” she declares, stabbing aggressively at the cake.

“I know,” you nod. “And you would’ve, Lauren and I had everything planned.”

“What?!” she exclaims, head whipping around to look at you faster than you’ve ever seen.

“We planned your birthday, costed it. Everything. Lauren took the whole pitch to your mom, and she was going to let us do it.”

“And then the stupid fucking network gave her the job with Blair Williams!”

Blair Williams is supposedly Austin’s favourite news anchor, but he’s actually a moron. He’s also likely to become Amy’s newest stepfather, sooner rather than later.

“Yeah,” you reply, sadly.

“I know, I know, I’m acting like a spoiled, ungrateful brat because people would _kill_ for a birthday like this. I know it costs a shitload of money to throw a party here, and this place is beautiful,” she begins, waving about, “but it’s not _me,_ and I’m tired of her ignoring me. She makes all this progress, she says she accepts me, and then she forces me into this -” you can see her tensing, anger flaring again, and on the verge of tears. “This fucking _bullshit_ ! Why am I never good enough?”

“But you are,” you blurt out, before you realise. “You are to me, OK?”

You touch her cheek briefly with your hand, wiping away a tear as it rolls down. Her head jerks up when you go in to kiss her on the cheek, so it lands mostly on her mouth, lingering longer than you meant it to. It’s been a long time since you’ve kissed, and you’re both surprised, quickly backing away from each other.

Her eyes are wide and she swallows hard, gazing at you intently.

She pulls back further, confusion evident. “What was that?”

“Birthday kisses, dork,” you say quickly, because it’s true, but you both know it was more than that. The fact that your heart is up in your throat out of nowhere is proof enough. “Never change, OK? Never be anything but you. Never be anything but Amy. _My_ Amy. Too smart, too dorky, too wonderful Amy.”

You have no idea why you’re trembling, or why that rushed out of you like some sort of confession. But, it doesn’t much matter, because Amy has this look that’s all soft and wondrous, and she’s moving toward you, knocking the champagne over as she does. You don’t have time to catch it, or even say anything, because her lips are on yours. You can hear the champagne fizzing as it spills in front of you, the low thudding noise of the music from the party, and the much louder noise of your heart, pounding, racing. She’s kissing you. Amy’s kissing you, and you don’t want her to stop. She tastes of chocolate and champagne, and the whole thing is making you wonderfully dizzy. Her lips are still soft, and still fit perfectly against yours, like they always did, but it’s _different_. You moan into her mouth at the sensation of her tongue sliding against yours as you deepen the kiss. It’s new and better, and you feel more than you ever have before, like she’s woken you up, or ignited something in you that you never knew existed.

When you grudgingly break apart, flushed, breathless, and lightheaded, smiling shyly at each other, you know everything has changed.


	4. A Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re something else now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5377802/chapters/12421022). Your love for this story has both humbled and amazed me. Thank you. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much.

**Karma** (8:12 AM):  
Amy, I’m in the next room, not the next state. I heard you.  
Quit yelling! I know you want breakfast, you’re always hungry!  
What do you want?

 **Amy** (8:13 AM):  
You texted me that?! How lazy are you?  
I can see you in the kitchen. Why didn’t you just yell?

 **Karma** (8:13 AM):  
So says the girl cocooned on the couch  
who didn’t want to ‘leave the warmth of the nest.’

 **Amy** (8:14 AM):  
You made the duvet nest!  
It’s your fault for making it so nice and comfy!

 **Karma** (8:14 AM):  
Liar! You were complicit!

 **Amy** (8:15 AM):  
I plead the fifth. Anyway, Trix. Thank you <3

 **Karma** (8:15 AM):  
Too late. I chose for you, sloth! Fruity Pebbles.

 

 

It’s a Saturday and you’re up early, watching cartoons with Amy. You haven’t done this in forever. Not since high school, and faking it, and classes, and work. You used to do this all the time. Back then you used to have to stand on a little pink stool to reach the cereal cupboard, and Amy’s dad had to pour the milk, and you and Amy used to share pyjamas because you were both the smallest kids in your class. Now, you can navigate the kitchen in your sleep, and Amy’s pj bottoms drag on the floor because she shot up as soon as puberty hit, and you never caught up. It’s nice, just to be here and do this, setting aside school and whatever else for a while to plow through the kids section of Netflix before you go and meet Shane for lunch at the mall. You have the place to yourselves for once, because Farrah is away at a conference, Bruce is _somewhere_ (he’s still kind of hanging around playing stepdad, but no one really seems to mind it), and Lauren is … well, you don’t know where she is, but she’s not actually in the house right now, so that’s good enough.

You hover in the doorway, bowls in both hands, orange juice tucked under your arm, just looking at her, or, the _shape_ that is her on the couch. Even though her hair's a mess – sticking out at odd angles because of static – and she has bags under her eyes, you can’t help thinking she looks kind of cute. You’ve been thinking that about her a lot lately, even when she’s not particularly trying to be cute – which happens to be most of the time.

“You look ridiculous you know,’ you comment, wryly.

She turns to look at you, wrapped in the duvet looking somewhere between E.T. and your gam-gam in her headscarf. “I’m acclimating!” she protests, pouting dramatically. “Do you know how early it is and how much sleep we haven’t had?!”

“I had noticed, Aims,” you reply, with a smile.

It’s true. You haven’t really slept at all, between studying and talking (OK, so it was more like talking and studying), and she doesn’t deal with the world well unless she’s had a solid couple of hours sleep. It doesn't feel like you closed your eyes for more than an hour, and you didn’t even make it upstairs to bed. Instead, you ended up sleeping on the couch with the duvet instead. When you woke up, you were cuddling, wrapped in her arms. Neither of you moved for a while, and even when you did, you didn’t say anything about how you woke up.

She’s still pouting when you reach the couch, set your breakfast down on the coffee table and watch her go through another cycle of her queue. You flop down next to her, starting to munch on your cereal. It’ll probably rot your teeth, but you don’t care, it tastes pretty amazing, and you could both use the sugar boost. Anyway, you’re _near_ orange juice, so that counts, right?

“How are you so cheery? Do you have secret batteries?!” she asks, with quite possibly the saddest puppy face ever, nuzzling into your shoulder.

“Not that I know of!” you laugh, and her mouth quirks into the dirtiest of smiles. “Get your mind out of the gutter!” you exclaim, swatting at her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she shakes her head, playing innocent. “None at all.”

“Are you gonna eat that?” you ask, pointing towards her untouched bowl with your own spoon. “It’ll get soggy soon, you hate when that happens.”

“I’m too tired,” she whines. “Pressing the remote and conserving body heat is taking too much energy.”

You turn toward her more fully, taking another mouthful. “Amy, we live in Texas, not the Arctic!” you remind her, mid bite. “What do you want me to feed you as well?”

“Since you asked,” she grins, opening her mouth, expectant.

“And you’ve reached new level of laziness. Well done,” you comment, with a laugh.

“Thanks,” she beams, and then she’s back to the baby bird routine, mouth wider than before.

If it was anyone else, you would’ve thrown the cereal in her face long ago, but it’s Amy, and it’s fun, and playful, and _easy,_ and you just wish you could do this all the time.

You load up the spoon from your bowl and lean over to her feed her anyway. It’s a disaster, because she moves at the same time you do, so the spoon hits her in the nose, and she ends up with most of it in her lap and all over her chin. You end up collapsing in a fit of giggles, while she wipes at her face with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Don’t ever have kids, you suck at that!” she manages between bouts of laughter. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh thank you! I do everything you ask, and still I suck!” you declare, mock offended. “Just to save you from overstretching, you know,” you add, with a knowing look, passing the bowl to her.

“You do. You suck the most. I’m getting a replacement Karma who’s better at feeding me cereal.”

“Ass!”

“You love me,” she singsongs, spooning her cereal into her mouth with a flourish.

“I do. I’m the only one who could put up with you,” you remind her.

“I know.”

You’re both joking, trading back and forth like you always have, but it feels different, like you’re not just joking, and you’re not just friends anymore. You’re something else now. Maybe you’ve _always_ been something else, but you haven’t really talked about all the looks, the touches, and the kissing – you’ve been doing a lot of that, even more than when you were faking – and what it all might mean. It has to mean _something,_ because you get butterflies whenever her hand brushes yours, and they swarm whenever she lets you hold it. You have them right now, because she’s still looking at you, holding your gaze for longer than she needs to. It’d be fine to kiss her now, you think, just because. The hour you spent yesterday after school on her bed doing exactly that wasn’t nearly enough.

She smiles shyly, and you clear your throat, suddenly nervous, wondering if the blush on your cheeks is as bright as it feels. Letting out an unsteady breath, you turn your attention back to the TV, glad for the distraction. She snatches up the orange juice carton and chugs it like it’s beer. Cautiously, you move closer to her and she moves closer to you, until your knees are almost touching. You stay like that for a while, huddled close, switching out of Netflix to flip through the TV channels, watching infomercials for exercise equipment, and mineral makeup, and other crap you’ll never buy, because Amy refuses to eat ‘loud food’ while Netflix is running. Cereal, especially when she’s eating it, is very loud.

“Thirty-nine, ninety-five!” she announces loudly, gesticulating wildly with her spoon, trying to guess the price of the ab machine on the screen.

“Ninety! Where do you live? Look at that craftsmanship,” you argue, elbowing her playfully. The milk in her bowl splashes up on her shirt and she gapes at it. You just smile.

She’s been making you do that a lot lately, and not just because you’ve been spending more time here. Farrah’s going to have to start charging you rent soon.

“Shit! We were both wrong!” she huffs, slamming her now empty bowl down onto the coffee table. “Sixty-nine.”

“Losing our touch, Aims.” you reply with a shake of your head. “It’s a sad day.”

“Let’s regress to the land of Spongebob, he’ll never let us down,” she says, turning the remote to the screen with a grand sweep.

“No, wait, “ you lurch forward, trying to grab it. “I queued Adventure Time for us, we’re behind. Don’t you want to know what happens with Marceline and Princess Bubblegum?”

She narrows her eyes at you briefly, and you know you’ve got her cornered. It was an easy target. You know all her weak spots.

“Erm, have you forgotten our golden rule, Miss Ashcroft?” she taunts, holding the remote out of your reach. “Holder of the remote is chooser of the content.”

“That’s not fair, you’re totally extorting your two extra inches of height!” you protest, straining to reach when she moves all the way back, scooting so she’s pressed into the corner of the couch.

“Actually, it’s three inches,” she crows, poking her tongue out.

“Fuck you! I’ll tickle it out of you then!”

“You dare!” she warns, casting off the duvet. She means business.

You grin mischievously. “Don’t dare me!”

All of three seconds elapses before you’re engaged in a tickle fight, crawling up the couch toward her, attacking as you go. You’re both laughing because she’s flailing all over the place, letting out a little screech every time you touch her. She’s close to calling out mercy when everything seems to stop, or, the world seems like it’s turning slower all of a sudden. The remote lands with a dull thud on the carpet. It’s quiet, and all you can hear is you both breathing, heavy and uneven. You’re not laughing anymore, and she’s not kicking and screaming, or trying to wriggle out of your reach, because you’re lying on top of her, hands on her bare thighs, the legs of her shorts ruffled.

For a moment, all you do is stare, eyes darting between her eyes and mouth, and back again. You don’t just want to kiss her anymore, you _need_ to. You surge forward, grabbing her face, pressing your lips roughly to hers in the least graceful way ever, swallowing down her muffled squeak of surprise. She’s frozen for a second, stiff underneath you, and you start to pull away, scared, hands falling away from her face. But then, she finally kisses back. It’s deep, and lingering, different to before, even though you’re way past those cute little pecks you used to call kisses. Her hands drop to your ass and squeeze it, pulling you closer, and pressing your hips down into hers, and _God,_ it’s good. You moan into her mouth at the sensation, and she smiles into the next kiss. You don’t care what you watch now, all you want is more of this: her hands on you, her lips on you, soft but insistent. You’re almost grinding against her now, kissing more haphazardly, not sure if the soft, hitched breaths you can hear every time your bodies make contact are hers or your own. Her hands slide up, threading into your hair and she kisses back harder, chasing you for more. Suddenly, you wish you weren’t on this couch anymore, you wish you were in her bed.

“Wait, wait,” she manages, pulling away grudgingly. “I think we need to slow this down,” she continues, hands framing your face.

That’s not what you were thinking at all.

“Whatever this is,” you offer.

You exhale, long and hard, trying to calm yourself, and scramble backwards so there’s some distance between you. That’s the hottest thing you’ve experienced in your almost eighteen years of life, and you really want a repeat. Right now. No one makes your heart race like she does. If you think about it too long, the intensity of it is terrifying.

“Yeah,” she says, swinging her legs around, forcing herself to sit up.

“I just … I think we’ll end up naked on the couch if we’re not careful, and I don’t think my mom needs that kind of surprise when she gets back.”

“Oh,” is all you can say, blushing furiously. “I think that’s a good idea,” you add, sheepish.

Really, deep down, you know it is. Until recently, you hadn’t given any real thought to having sex with a girl, having sex with _Amy,_ but now, you kind of can’t stop thinking about it. But, deep down, you know doing it here would a bad idea. Though the mood is right, the timing is totally wrong.

“For the record,” she says, suddenly close again, remote in hand. You don’t know when she reached for it. “I really would’ve liked that, but I like this the way it is right now too. Our thing, our speed.”

She’s right about that too. Though she’s being earnest, there’s a hint of flirtatiousness in her voice that makes heat spike in your belly all over again. You love her. You love her so much, because she cares enough about you not to treat sex like it’s throwaway. You feel so wanted, and so content with her, and you don’t want to ruin it by going too fast. You’ve both lost so much, and wasted so much, that you’re glad she put the brakes on this. You want it to be special; you want it to matter, because it’s Amy, and everything matters with her, so why should that be any different? The intimacy between you is changing, but it doesn’t mean any less. You couldn’t just hook up with her in the art room, or at a party, but there has to be more. She deserves more and so do you.

Wordlessly, she pulls you closer, arm around your shoulders, cocooning you both in the duvet when she pulls it from up from the floor. You focus on the TV for a while, on Jake and Finn, losing yourself in the story, resting your head on her shoulder while she plays with your hair.

“I like this,” you say, quietly.

“I like this too,” she replies, briefly kissing the top of your head.

You’re not sure what any of this means, or how other people see it, or what they might think. But you do know that you’re happier than you’ve been in months, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough for now.


	5. A Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Suddenly, a lot of things make sense.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For general story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5377802/chapters/12421022). So, here we are my lovelies, the final chapter in the fluff fest. In case you haven’t figured it out already, I really loved writing this. I intended it has a happy little verse to clear my head after the angst of my previous project and come back fresh for you all. I’m so glad to see you’ve taken to your hearts and it’s standing up so well on its own. For me this is a story about the details of love, of tiny expressions of it. The tiny gestures in between the huge moments that are so often what we think of as a love story. Thank you for the love and the comments. Sorry not sorry for all the feelings though. Elements of this chapter are brought to you by the fact that I love Tori Kelly, a lot of her songs give me Karmy feelings, and Katie thinks she’s awesome too, so it’s only right I bring her into my sphere of influences for my writing! Last, but by no means least, the essay title used in this chapter is a real one, written by scholar Brian Ward. His work is amazing and thought-provoking, go and check it out. Until next time, fair readers!

**Karma** (4:19 PM):  
How’s work?

 **Amy** (4:22 PM):  
Busy, caffeine-fuelled, yet surprisingly lonely.  
On my break now.

 **Amy** (4:22 PM):  
And the library?

 **Karma** (4:24 PM):  
Boring and Amy-less :( It’s better when you’re here.

 **Amy** (4:24 PM):  
I know I suck, but the shift came up last minute.  
I’d rather be with you.

 **Amy** (4:25 PM):  
Anyway, I didn’t want to distract you  
anymore than I already have, babe.

 **Karma** (4:26 PM):  
You’re texting girlfriend things!

 **Amy** (4:26 PM):  
It’s OK right, to be doing that?  
You’re OK with everything?

 **Karma** (4:27 PM):  
Very OK. I like this. I like us.  
  
**Karma** (4:27 PM):  
I like girlfriend things.  
I waking up with you.

 **Amy** (4:28 PM):  
I do too :) You’re totally blushing now. I can tell.

 **Karma** (4:28 PM):  
Go away! Leave me alone and get  
back to work before Max fires you!

 **Amy** (4:29 PM):  
He’d never fire me, I’m indispensable.  
See you in 59 mins, beautiful xx

 

Ever since you’ve had a phone to text with, Amy’s have always made you happy. They’ve made you smile, they’ve made you laugh, and sometimes they’ve even made you laugh until you’ve cried. But, you’re pretty sure that none of them have ever made you swoon and sigh dreamily whenever you scroll back through the conversation to relive it. Everything she says, she means. It’s not just to please you or to get something in return, and you can’t quite get your head around it.

All day, you’ve been trying to process everything, but you can’t. That makes it sound bad, like you’re unhappy and confused, but you’re not at all, you’re none of those things. You’re blissfully, nauseatingly, floating on cloud nine happy. If there were clouds higher than nine, you’d be living there right now. Cloud eleven? Cloud one hundred and twelve? Yeah, that sounds about right.

You’re staring at the computer screen, fingers hovering over the keys, and your earbuds in to shut off the rest of the world, but you can’t seem to focus. Even your work playlist is distracting you. Every word and every note feels like it’s about Amy. Taylor and Colbie, Tori and Kacey are singing about your life and your love.

Ordinarily, you’d be freaking out because your US history paper on freedom songs and The Civil Rights Movement is due in two days, Mr Delaney _hates_ you and doesn’t really think you can pull off the topic, because even the title is cool ( _‘“People Get Ready”: Music and the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and 1960s’_ ). It’s about ninety percent written, and the other ten percent of the knowledge necessary to complete it is in the stack of notes you can’t find, and you don’t know when Amy’s going to have time to proof it for you. She’s always waved her nerd flag proudly, but for you to be so invested in working on this, especially Mr Delaney’s class, is kind of weird. You want to make him proud and prove him wrong, and that’s a surprisingly good motivator. You want to make Amy proud, like you are when she’s at Decathlon, or when she’s giving someone a piece of her mind in class when they come out with some ridiculous and totally wrong _bullshit_ she tears down in two seconds. But, the longer it’s gone on, the more you want to do this project well and make yourself proud too.

Except, today isn’t ordinary. Today is … when everything became real.

This morning, you woke up in Amy’s bed.

It might’ve been a sleepover, but there wasn’t much sleeping involved. For once, that wasn’t because of her insistence that you needed to see ‘one more episode’ before you actually tried to sleep. It was because you were too busy being kissed by her soft – so soft – lips, touched with gentle hands, and undressed with a careful slowness that made you feel precious, wanted, and adored in a way you never have before. You’ve never been more nervous about anything, but you’ve never felt safer than when you’re in Amy’s arms. You made love, and you finally know what that stupid overused phrase means. It’s beautiful, passionate, and _sexy,_ and everything you ever longed for, and imagined it could be, but never actually felt before. Until now. You can still feel her breath on your skin, her mouth, her tongue, her hands, her fingertips. The prints are still there, they always will be now, invisible to the eye, but indelible otherwise. She’s part of you now and you like what it means. You can still hear her voice, soft in your ear, asking if you were OK, or if you liked something, telling you how beautiful and perfect you are.

She said you’d believe it one day. Today, you finally do.

You didn’t go to her house yesterday with some elaborate plan, fixated on sleeping with her because that’s the direction things have been headed in for so long, or because it’s the right thing to do (like you have so many times before), or even because she expected it from you. Instead, it just happened, accidentally, but quite naturally, all on its own and it _was_ the right thing to do. There was no hurried, awkward fumbling – OK, there _was_ a little awkwardness, with shaky hands and small buttons – the whole evening just … unfolded, and it felt like you dropped out of time. Everything in the universe stretched to allow it. It allowed you to kiss her, slow and unhurried. So you could touch her slower still; curious and terrified all at once, until she’d guide you enough to make curiosity win out. So you could feel soft warmth of her skin against yours, and the weight of her, pressed closely, reminding you that it wasn’t a dream and it was very, _very_ real. So you could hear your name fall from her lips, breathy and elongated, like you’ve never heard it before. She made you sound wondrous, and so very far from ordinary.

You still can’t believe it actually happened.

Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. Like how your mom always says love and sex is a ‘union of souls,’ or how love songs, and poems, and movies get written, because that’s how you feel when you’re with Amy. It’s like the world is a different colour now – brighter, clearer, more beautiful – or runs at a different speed than it did before. Everything’s changed. You always thought that if you went there with Amy, that if you were more than friends, it would ruin everything between you, and nothing would be the same. Nothing _is_ the same, but not in the way you expected. It’s better. You thought things would be different because of boundaries or the lack of them, but the shift in intimacy means there are no boundaries at all. You kiss when you want, you touch when you want, the hesitance you used to feel, and the hesitance you used to see in Amy’s eyes is gone.

You’ve read friends to lovers stories before and how there was always a turning point, but you can’t seem to find where that conscious choice was. Maybe it was the rally, maybe it was the threesome, maybe it was when Amy left, maybe it was the birthday kiss on the lawn. The more you try to pin it down in those terms, the less relevant the idea seems. You love Amy. It just is. Whether you’ve always been in love with her, or you fell in love with her the second she returned from her summer away, you’re not sure, you don’t really think it matters. All that matters is you love her now, and there’s nothing weird or awkward or shameful about it, you just do.

Shane always says that Amy loving you was her default. Now you finally know what he means. You know because you feel exactly the same.

It should’ve been something you’ve both talked about, not least because you haven’t labelled it in terms of being girlfriends until today. You don’t mind that, in fact, you think it’s best. Being with her is easy, it’s effortless when you know it should be complicated, because at different times, for different reasons, you’ve both been holding back: not saying, not doing, not feeling, and now, there’s none of that. You’re open, and you’re honest about the fact you make each other happy. What else do people need to know? Why the _fuck_ should it matter to anyone but you and Amy? Getting tangled up in all that bullshit and the circus that was _Karmy_ is what caused most of Amy’s pain and confusion (your part in all that goes unsaid, but you still feel guilty), and made you dig in your heels and deny, deny, deny, breaking her heart and pushing her away until she wasn’t there to push, and her heart was in too many pieces to break anymore.

The fact that she came back to Hester this year at all is a blessing. A gift. A miracle. You were never one to believe in miracles. You subscribe to more Earth-bound things, like paying things forward, and everything happening for a reason. There was a reason. Amy needed to leave, you know that now. It hurt you both, more than you’ve ever admitted, but it was a necessary pain. Necessary because it got you here. It led you back to each other.

You’re still thinking about how hard that journey was when you feel someone tug at your earbuds, and suddenly you’re back in the real world, in the dusty library with the buzzing strip light and painted shut windows, your fingers yet to type, cursor blinking hypnotically on the screen. For a few horrendous seconds, you’re terrified that it’s Mrs Langley, but the gesture’s too soft. Then, you feel arms slide around you, breath on your skin, and fingers curling around your hair to move it off your neck, and you just _know_.

“The whole library can hear you singing backup for Tori you know,” Amy whispers, playful.

You crane to see her, smiling, even though you’re a little embarrassed, still able to hear the tinny, faint sound of the bass from ‘Rocket’ playing along without you. When did you even start to sing? When did Amy even get here? How did you not hear her coming in from the stairs? Where the _hell_ did the last hour go?

“Hi,” you greet, still feeling the blush in your cheeks. You reach up, watching your reflection in the computer screen when the screensaver makes it go dark, inching your fingertips toward her before cautiously grasping the hand that rests on your shoulders.

“Hi,” she echoes, sweetly, squeezing your hand a little.

All you can think is how cute Amy looks in her uniform. Somehow she makes that stupid cartoon coffee cup shirt print work, and it even looks kind of cool with her baseball jacket - you’re totally stealing that, you’re obsessed with it - skinny jeans and her ancient Vans. Then, you can’t help but see how good you look together. Not in a ‘takes good selfies’ way, in a ‘we look like a couple way.’ Now, you finally get why Lisbeth and Leila were so bonkers about you actually _being_ one.

You see a flicker of something go across her face, and then, she dips her head down, blocking out the computer screen. Suddenly, her lips are on yours, her free hand cradling the back of your head. For a few seconds, you’re stuck on the fact that you’re kissing each other. In. Public. There aren’t many people here now, they’re too focussed on their work, and they probably don’t even _care_ , it’s Hester, but it means something. It means something to you. With the protection of the book stacks and your work cubicle to shield you from view, you get brave and lean up, kissing her back more urgently. She hums her appreciation, smiling into the next kiss, it’s a little harder, a little deeper, and you push up toward her, neck craning uncomfortably, because you’re not quite close enough to kiss her how you’d like.

On the floor below, the door slams, making you both start, and it reminds you exactly where you are, and it’s enough to make you pull away, flustered. You find you don't really care who saw, not with the way she’s looking at you; with such open desire, but such tenderness.

“I wanted to do that all day,” she says, breathlessly.

You nod mutely, transfixed as you watch her move away from you, dragging the chair across from the next cubicle and putting it next to yours. If she’s expecting conversation, you’re going to need a moment, because _wow_ this gear shift is going to be difficult to get used to. You’re going to have to learn how to rein your feelings in. Right now, every time you kiss, you want to rip her clothes off and have sex on the nearest available surface. Does this last? How do people function in their daily lives? You almost want to go back to the sweet, chaste little kisses from when you were faking, because at least you could handle those. But then, you don’t want to tell her to not kiss you like that, or not do anything, because it’s wonderful and amazing.

“You OK?” she asks, gently. “You spaced a bit there.”

“Yeah,” you start, shaking yourself out of it. “That was …” you swallow. “Some kiss.”

“Uh-huh,” she nods, replying, “I know,” in this soft, reverent way.

Now, you know what she meant when she used to say kissing you was ‘a lot.’

“I needed that,” you admit quietly, not able to stop the smile that follows. “This afternoon sucked.”

“I figured. I know it’s an unconventional study aid, but I thought you deserved it.”

She smiles too, holding your gaze a little too long. The way she looks at you now is different, like you’re both in on a secret. A good, wonderful, powerful secret, that’s just yours to keep.

No one’s ever looked at you like that.

“Shit, I forgot, I thought you might need these,” she says as she reaches into her back pocket and presents a stack of paper. They’re your essay notes, scattered and messy. “Sorry, I folded them, I know you hate that, but I don’t have my bag at work.”

“Thanks,” you reply, brushing her hand when you take them from her. You still feel the same jolt feeling, the same spike of excitement. “At least I can finish now before the next century!”

“You left them on my desk,” she reminds you. “I think we got a bit distracted.”

“We did,” you smile shyly, dipping your head.

You look down at your hands, fingers still intertwined, and you have to let hers go, because you can’t stop thinking about it. There’s a sudden rush of images as you think of her hands, her mouth, her messy unmade bed, and the ecstasy you felt lying in it, underneath her, the sole focus of her attention. It’s pretty overwhelming. Running a shaky hand through your hair, you focus on your notes instead, trying to distract yourself, but it doesn’t really work.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk this morning. I wanted to make sure you were OK, and then we overslept so we had to bail in like, five seconds.”

“It’s OK,” you say, trying to assure her.

You _did_ have to bail in five seconds, and you do still have about a million questions to ask her about how she feels, and what it all means, but then, she doesn’t know you woke up first and spent twenty minutes just watching her sleep next to you, and it was perfect. How could you want anything more than that?

“It’s not,” she says, shaking her head. “OK, isn’t what I wanted our first morning together to be like,” she continues, earnestly.

At that, you dare to glance over at her. “It’s not?”

“No,” she shifts in her seat. “You deserve more. I wanted to make sure you weren’t freaked out, and talk about how you’re feeling. I know it was a huge deal for you to go there, for us to take that step. It was our first time sure,” she pauses, leaning forward, turning your chair so you’re facing her. “But, it was your first time with a girl, and that really matters.”

She’s so close that your knees brush. You glance over at her, pursing your lips closed to keep yourself from saying something stupid. And there is it again, that secret look, knowing and loving all at once.

Maybe she’s always looked at you this way, but you just never saw it before?

“The fact that it was me complicates things, but I don’t want you think it doesn’t mean anything, or that I’ve brushed this off because you’re not the first girl for me,” she puffs out a breath, her voice starting to waver when she says, “You have no idea how long I waited, how much I wanted that first girl to be you. I always thought it’d be a dream.”

“I’m glad it got to be real,” you reply, quietly. “I’m glad it was you.”

The moment you say that, you can see the worry leave her, the weight on her shoulders lift. She smiles.

“I’d never think you don’t care, Amy. That’s impossible. And yes, it _was_ a huge deal, but I’m not freaked out. I don’t regret it at all.”

Her smile gets wider. Brighter. She sighs with relief. “Thank God. I don’t think I could take that.”

You take both her hands in yours, wanting to comfort her. It saddens you that she’s so quick to worry, that you’ve been such a source of pain for her in the past, now that you’ve had the chance to experience the total opposite with her for months now.

“I can’t explain how you made me feel last night … How I felt waking up with you. How you make me feel now. Just being with you, Aims, it’s …”

There are no words for it, and if you aren’t careful, you’ll start crying and you’re scared she’ll misread it completely. Tears for Amy have almost always been an expression of sadness.

“I know,” she says again, reaching out to stroke your cheek.

And then, because you can’t keep dodging the question, “Is this how you felt all this time?”

It seems to take her an eternity to answer, and she stares at you intently, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find the right words.

In the end, only one comes out, clear, resolute, and unashamed. “Yes.”

You’re not sure if you meant today, the last few months, or in the moments following your kiss in the gym at the homecoming rally. It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is her answer.

“Oh Amy,” is all you manage, feeling yourself get choked up.

“I just couldn’t tell you. I didn’t think it was fair,” she replies simply. “But things are different now.”

That’s the understatement of the century. Maybe it wouldn’t have been fair, but you know she’s always held back with you until she had no choice but to say how she felt, at the wedding, at the jail, on the street before she left. Those landmarks feel so long ago now, your journey has taken a different turn. You’ve made new landmarks together.

“They are,” you nod, smiling a little.

“So, I wasn’t going to do this now, but I can’t wait any longer. When I got home to change for work, something came in the mail,” she says, letting go of your hand to reach into her jacket pocket. She pulls out an envelope, long and thin.

“Ooh is it from Clement?” you ask, curious. She shakes her head. “UCLA?”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head again. “You’ve been through so much, and you’re working so hard, and I know how difficult it’s been.”

“You have too,” you remind her, not wanting to dwell too much on things before the start of this last school year.

“So, I wanted to do something for you, because you deserve it, and even though the timing seems severely sketchy, I really didn’t do this with agenda, I promise you. When I bought these I’d already put the idea of us out of my head, I’d let it go.”

You frown, confused by her sudden seriousness. “I know that, Amy. You’ve never done that,” you say, sincere.

“You can open it,” she says, passing the envelope to you.

You stall for a moment, unsure where this is going, suddenly very aware that she’s watching you, and waiting for your reaction. The envelope tears easily, and you peek inside, laughing nervously. Then, you finally reach in. There’s a letter, and a paper wallet of some kind. You look up at her, still puzzled.

“Keep going,” she encourages.

“What did you do?” you eye her suspiciously, wondering if this is the start of another of her infamous scavenger hunts.

“Just open it,” she gives a little clap, urging you on. “It’s probably gonna be totally boring, you know. Two hours of your life never to return!” she deadpans. Your Amy is back.

It suddenly dawns on you what it might be.

You unfold the wallet, and for long - too long - seconds you can’t believe what’s in your hand. They’re concert tickets. But, they’re not just _any_ tickets. They’re tickets for a show, at the end of the summer, in California. You can’t quite focus, because it feels like your heart is going to explode in the _best_ way.

All you can see is four words: TORI KELLY. THE ROXY.

“Oh my God!” it comes out in an ear-piercing screech. “Amy! Oh my _fucking_ God! Tori!” you clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to quiet yourself, and failing completely, close to tears. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope, totally happening,” she nods, beaming. “You and me at the Roxy, babe. Meet and Greet. You get to see her in the flesh instead of on YouTube and everything.”

Your jaw drops. Everything since last night has to be a dream. It _has_ to be.

“What?!” you yell, leaping out of your chair and launching yourself toward her.

“Shh,” she says, pressing a finger to your lips. “Mrs Langley will kick us out!”

“Is this really happening?” you ask, making a concerted effort to speak lower.

You don’t know what to do. You can’t think, you can’t even _breathe_. The furthest you’ve been for a concert is Dallas.

“Yup,” she says, proudly and winks at you. “Gotta see my nemesis up close,” she jokes, with a laugh.

She teases you about your thing for Tori on a regular basis. Tori’s music is amazing. Tori’s _everything_ is amazing, and you might be a little bit obsessed. You used to say she was just a role model, it was just about her music, an intellectual crush. Then, it was about her hair and her style, a girl crush, like your love for Jennifer Lawrence, but the more you watched and the more you listened, it was different. After Amy, Tori is the only girl you’ve admitted to having a crush on. A legitimate crush on another girl. It was a huge moment, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary cafeteria conversation with Amy, Shane, and Felix. The world didn’t stop turning when you said it, and you didn’t feel weird or ashamed. When Shane started on a rant about Scooter Braun, and how he’d eventually ruin her, you looked over at Amy, just to try and gauge her reaction. She nodded at you, looking anything but jealous, and more than a little proud.

If you can even speak in her presence, you’ll tell Tori all of this, and then tell her what a wonderful girl … girlfriend … Amy is.

“These are so expensive! The seats are amazing! How did you afford this? How did you get these? Who did you kill?” you ask, all the questions tumbling out of your mouth in quick succession. “Tori!”

“I got the presale code, dork! I know how bummed you were when Baldwin High kicked our asses in the Decathlon and our road trip plans went down the toilet,” she explains, scowling a little. “I had to do something. We’re going however far my piece of shit car will take us, and then we use my dad’s flyer miles. I thought it’d be a great way to end our summer.”

Now, there are a lot more things that make sense.

“That’s why you took all those extra shifts!” you say, grinning at her. “You’re the best!”

“You’re better,” she corrects, like always. “Seeing you … your face … right now is totally worth all the blood, sweat, and lattes,” she replies, awed. “You’re so fucking cute.”

You can’t believe she’s worked so hard for you, but then, you can, because it’s Amy.

“Thank you, so much!” you exclaim, reaching for her and squeezing her as tight as you possibly can, the tickets still clutched in your free hand. “I love you!”

“What?” she blinks back surprise, dumfounded.

“I love you,” you say again, at the precise moment that it dawns on you that you’ve said it out loud. “I … I love you. I’m crazy, stupid in love with you!”

How is it so easy to say now? How does it just feel like breathing? Why did it take you so long?

“I love you!” you’re yelling now, you don’t care who hears, you don’t care if Mrs Langley bans you from the library forever, you want everyone to know. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” Each time you say it, the phrase gets louder and louder, and her smile is brighter and wider. You pull her toward you, grabbing a fistful of her t-shirt. This time, there’s no shushing. “I. Love. You,” you say again, looking her in the eyes to make sure she knows you mean it, punctuating every word with a kiss.

You hear her let out a shuddering breath before she says the quietest “Karma …” you’ve ever heard.

“Amy …?” you reply, matching her, not wanting to look away.

She goes for the kiss at the same time as you do, and your lips press together, crushing hard. Your arms thread loosely around her neck, clinging to the tickets, crumpling them slightly. Hers slide around your waist, pulling you closer. You kiss, and kiss, and kiss until your lungs ache for air, not caring who can see, or what they’re thinking, or what they’re texting to their friends. All that matters is Amy. All that’s ever mattered is Amy.

“I want this. I want us,” you say, giddy and breathless. “I want you.”

She surges forward, and kisses you again, quick heated little pecks, her hands framing your face. She’s not so worried about people watching now. Neither are you. There’s disparate cheers and whistling, and if you could focus on anything but Amy and the way she holds you, and her perfect mouth kissing you just how you’ve always dreamt of being kissed, you’d tell them all to fuck off and leave you alone. But they don’t matter at all.

“You have me, Karma. You have me,” she whispers, resting her forehead against yours when you finally break the kiss. “You always did.”

You kiss her again, and again, softer, slower, more deliberate, swallowing down her surprise because you’ve never kissed this way outside her bedroom, not knowing where one kiss begins and the other ends. You want to kiss her like this every morning, and every night, and every hour between those two states just to make up for all the time you’ve wasted.

It dawns on you then, standing in that stuffy, dusty library with the blinking strip lights, and panic and the enforced silence, kissing Amy in full view of everyone, that this is the girl you’ve always wanted. This is the love you’ve always wanted. A love that’s beyond fairytales and in the real world. A love that was so close, ready and waiting for you to fall into if you were brave enough, that you almost let it slip through your fingers. You’re not about to let that happen again.

You’re so happy it feels like you’d float away if she wasn’t holding on to you.

It’s entirely possible.


End file.
